“Can we hurry that process up?” Calladia asked. “It’s pretty urgent.”
“One cannot rush such things.”
Why was nothing ever straightforward, especially when it came to witch business? Astaroth eyed Isobel, wondering if that had been a final answer or the beginning of negotiations. “What if we pay you a lot of money?”
Isobel pursed her lips, looking between them. “You don’t look rich.”
“We’ve been roughing it,” Calladia said. “And I did recently lose most of my worldly possessions, but I can scrounge up some cash.”
If Isobel was as old as Astaroth suspected, she wouldn’t be inclined to trust fiat currency versus something more tangible. “I have a safe full of gold doubloons,” he offered.
“Doubloons?” Calladia asked incredulously. “Who are you, Blackbeard?”
“No, but I did enjoy a brief stint in piracy.” Talk about a group that understood the importance of branding. From their flags to their wildly original methods of execution, pirates had nailed the creative brief.
Interest flared in Isobel’s eyes. “Where are these coins?”
“London.” He was fairly sure they were still there anyway, though if Lilith had been poking around, who knew? “I can write a promissory note.”
Isobel pursed her lips. “If you sign a contract in blood, I’ll accept it.”
She was definitely old. These days, most witches accepted digital signatures in WarlockuSign.
“So you can restore his memories after all?” Calladia asked.
“No, but I can encourage the brain to heal. The moment the memories return will still depend on Astaroth, but a stable foundation will make the rest of the process easier.”
“Let’s do it,” Astaroth said.
Isobel produced a piece of parchment, a quill pen, and a knife, and Astaroth wrote a promise to pay fifty gold doubloons in exchange for her assistance regaining his memories. He signed it, then cut his finger and dabbed blood on the signature.
Isobel inspected it, then folded the contract and set it on the fireplace mantel. “Relax and close your eyes,” she said.
A moment later, her fingers touched his temples. She spoke spells under her breath, and as her fingers fluttered and tapped against his skull, a wave of cool, soothing energy spread through his head before dissipating.
“There,” she said. “The physical damage will heal more quickly.”
He opened his eyes. “That was fast.”
Isobel inclined her head with a small smile. “I have been honing my skills for a long time. Brains are complex, so this will need a period of natural healing as well, but I fixed your superficial injuries while I was at it. Consider it a first-time customer bonus.”
He’d gotten so used to avoiding touching the scab on his head, he hadn’t realized it was gone. When he tentatively prodded his skull, he found unbroken skin, and his black eye felt similarly healed. Even his cut finger was whole again. “Cheers, appreciate it.”
“About the other issue,” Calladia said. “How many witches can reduce an immortal life span?”
“Several that I’m aware of can manipulate human lives,” Isobel said, resuming her seat. “That’s the reason a witch was able to turn you mortal,” she told Astaroth. “The ones I know can’t influence the life spans of other species, but your human half made you an acceptable target.” She tapped her chin, looking thoughtful. “Although I suppose someone out there might be capable of influencing a pure demon. Life magic is a rare discipline, but there are enough practitioners I can’t say who was responsible.” She shrugged. “Alas.”
“Let’s say there’s a purebred demon we want to eliminate,” Astaroth said. “You’re saying you can’t kill him with your magic?”
“With magic? No. With a guillotine? Sure.”
Curses. Isobel was a dead end on the “kill Moloch” front, but maybe the witch could still assist them. “Can you restore my immortality?” Astaroth asked, hoping it would be that easy.
“That is more complicated,” Isobel said. “It isn’t as easy as telling someone to ‘live long and prosper.’ No one can conjure life from nothing; it must be a trade. That is why Alzapraz looks the way he does. To attain eternal life without harvesting it from others, he had to trade away his physical health.” She sighed. “A shame. He was such a virile lover.”
“Why don’t you look old, then?” Calladia asked.